


I haven't written this part yet, will you help me write it?

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [7]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Dialogue, Established Relationship, Kent is a tattoo nerd, Kissing, M/M, Tattoos, whiskey doing anything to hear the sound of Kent's voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25462036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: "Tell me about your tattoos"
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 11
Kudos: 122





	I haven't written this part yet, will you help me write it?

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Outside with the Cuties by Frankie Cosmos

“Tell me about your tattoos,” Whiskey says. 

He’s lying on his stomach in Kent’s bed, legs kicked out behind him. He’s tracing a tattoo on Kent’s ankle, a little stick man, faded but distinctly waving. 

“You’ve seen my tattoos,” Kent says, running his hands through his own hair, he looks down at Whiskey and smiles fondly. 

It’s true, there’s not much of Kent that he hasn’t seen at this point.

“I know,” Whiskey says, “I just like listening to you talk about things. Which one did you get first?”

“You’re touching it,” Kent says. 

Whiskey runs his thumb over the faded stick man. 

“When?” Whiskey turns his head to look up at Kent.

“Before I left for Rimouski, so I would’ve been 15. It’s a stick and poke,” Kent wiggles his foot, “I got it after the badminton season, my doubles partner brought needles and ink to the party. Most of them got like little badminton rackets but I thought it looked dumb, so, stick man,” Kent explains. 

“I didn’t know you played badminton,” Whiskey says. 

“I played everything,” Kent shrugs, “Before Rimouski at least.”

“I got my first  _ real  _ one in Rimouski though,” Kent says. 

“How’d you manage that?” Whiskey asks. 

“We found a place that didn’t card. So me and a bunch of the guys went, not Jack, but some other guys I played with,” Kent says, “Got this,” he touches his left shoulder, there’s a line drawing of a lion cub. Whiskey would say it doesn’t go with most of his tattoos, but other than the sleeve on his right forearm, none of his tattoos really fit together. 

“They don’t all like… mean something deep but this is the same kind of design my mom has on her wrist, I always liked it when I was a kid. She was  _ pissed  _ when she found out I didn’t ask her about it though.”

Whiskey straightens up so he’s resting against Kent’s stomach. His fingers have traced the explosive floral pattern above his hip bone more times than he can remember. 

“Tattoo artist said that it’s one of the most painful spots to get a tattoo and I was trying to show off to some guys,” Kent shrugs, “I thought the flowers looked nice.”

“They’re pretty,” Whiskey says. 

Kent looks down at his bare chest and blushes.

“I want to add to that one, maybe do my thigh a little bit more. More flowers, maybe a bird. If you’re okay with that?” Kent says. 

“Why would I mind that?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent goes quiet, eyes fall to where Whiskey’s hand has stilled over his thigh.

“Some people do,” he mutters, “I dated someone, when I was way younger, not Jack,” Kent laughs to himself, “He didn’t like it when I got new tattoos without asking him.”

Whiskey frowns, “You can do whatever you want and I’ll like it,” he says, then he thinks, “As long as it’s not, like, a Seahawks tattoo.”

“You know I hate football anyway,” Kent says, “And the city of Seattle.”

“Good, then you’re safe,” Whiskey teases. 

“Would you break up with me if I did, though?” Kent asks, running with the joke. 

“Hmm,” Whiskey says, “No, but I’d refuse to acknowledge it, like I’d censor my own brain like that one episode of Black Mirror.”

Whiskey likes Kent’s sleeve a lot too, especially when he’s wearing a button up and he rolls up the sleeves and the bottom of it pokes out. All four Aces in the deck are fanned out just below his elbow, surrounded by a couple dice, some poker chips and some ornamental palm leaves to fill in the gaps. Whiskey runs his finger over the edge of one of the leaves that pokes down the closest to his hand. 

“What are you going to do if you get traded?” Whiskey ribs playfully.

“Well first of all I have a No Trade Clause and they’re not about to get rid of their franchise centre, so jot that down, babe,” Kent says, “but when I inevitably ask for a trade to wherever you end up, I’ll probably just keep it, or find some artist who’ll draw a big X through it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Whiskey says, “Vegas is too  _ you _ for you to wreck it.”

“Nice excuse, you can just admit you think it’s hot when I roll up my sleeve,” Kent puts his arms behind his head, flexes his bicep not-so-subtly. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, why does Kent have to look so good when he’s being a cocky shit.

There’s a whale underneath the lion cub tattoo on Kent’s shoulder, the tale shaped like the Rimouski Oceanic logo. It’s not one of Whiskey’s favourites and Kent doesn’t much like it either since the tale looks kind of weird and a little bit blobby so many years after Kent got it. It doesn’t really fit with the tattoo that stretches over the front of his shoulder and onto his chest. It’s by far the most detailed, a landscape painting. Some trees in front of a lake, rolling snow capped hills in the background. All in black and white, all beautiful. He got it last summer. Whiskey remembers seeing the post last year when he was stalking Kent’s Instagram. Whiskey can tell which tattoos were random, spur of the moment decisions and which ones involved some more planning with the artist that he goes to in Vegas. 

It started out with Whiskey asking Kent about specific tattoos but now Kent is showing them off, pointing at different spots on his skin. 

“Hailey drew this,” he says, pointing at something on the top of his left thigh, just above his knee. Whiskey can tell that he took the drawing to the artist and asked them to reproduce it exactly as his half-sister had drawn it. A mermaid with long flowing hair, a few lines out of place but otherwise really good for a kid, the mermaid is sitting on a swing, tail stretched out in front of her, long hair covering her chest, eyes screwed up in laughter. 

“I always wondered about that one,” Whiskey says, hand reaching down to touch Kent’s knee. 

“I asked her if I could get it tattooed and she didn’t believe me until I sent her the pictures. I want to ask her to design something else,” Kent says. 

Whiskey examines it, “She did a really good job.”

“You should tell her.”

“I will when I finally get to meet her.”

“She already likes you,” Kent says. 

“Wow, your cat and your little sister like me, I’ve already won boyfriend of the year I think,” Whiskey says. 

Kent rolls his eyes and runs his hand down his own arm, just underneath the whale, the words “comme ci comme ca” written in sloping script. 

“That’s gotta be deep, right?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent laughs, “They tried and failed to get me to speak in french class. It means so-so, I guess literally it means ‘like this, like that,’ and every day when the teacher would say  _ ‘comment ca va’ _ to try to get us to practice speaking, I’d say ‘ _ comme ci comme ca _ ’ it’s fine,” Kent laughs to himself, “I think it was just fun to say.” 

Most of Kent’s tattoos fall into one of two categories, organized, planned, fairly sophisticated and intricate, or, incredibly random and thrown onto his body because he felt like it. 

He lifts his leg and holds up his calf, a few inches above the stick man is a fruit, Kent thinks it’s a peach because he can see a pit. 

“It’s an apricot,” Kent says, “Kelli has the same one. There’s a song that she likes and it’s called apricots,” he shrugs, “We were drunk and couldn’t think of anything better.”

“Do you get matching tattoos for all your friends,” Whiskey chirps.

He knows for a fact that the seagull on his calf has something to do with Swoops and that the cat tattoo on Swoops’ shoulder has something to do with Kent. 

“Seagull?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“It’s not  _ matching _ ,”Kent points out, “We just got them done at the same time. First time I went to my artist here. Though if I want it to be accurate to Swoops’ vibe it should have been stealing someone’s french fries.”

Whiskey’s comfortable here, he loves the sound of Kent’s voice, probably more than any sound in the world. He’s listen to Kent tell him tattoo stories all night until he drifted off. It’s the exact perfect temperature in Nevada right now, he flew out to spend his fall break with Kent so the air’s neither hot or cold, just there. It’s the right weather for him to wear sweatpants but for Kent to also not have to wear a shirt, which Whiskey will never complain about. 

Kent is also a superb pillow, warm in all the right spots, and soft but solid. Kent plays with his hair at night and Whiskey likes that too. He’ll swat his hand away during the day because he hates having his hair loose and in his face, he’d rather the product that he puts in his hair in the morning stay there. It’s free reign when he already has bedhead though. 

Kent pulls Whiskey up so that he’s laying beside him. Kent wraps his arm around Whiskey’s shoulder, Whiskey traces the  _ comme ci comme ca  _ tattoo and laughs to himself, it’s a distinctly  _ Kent  _ thing to have tattooed. 

“You speak any more french?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent clears his throat dramatically, “Salut, Je m’appelle Kent Parson. J’ai uhhhh, dix-sept ans et je jouer au hockey.”

“Doesn’t dix-sept mean seventeen?” Whiskey asks, “Ford took french as her elective this year,” he explains. 

Kent nod, “I forgot all the other numbers.”

“Say something else,” Whiskey prompts. 

“Je ne peux pas parler francais parce que je suis un cretin americain,” Kent says, “Jack taught me that one.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” Whiskey says, smile on his face. 

“Then we can just pretend you found it incredibly sexy,”

Kent pulls Whiskey closer, Whiskey settles into Kent’s lap and leans down to kiss him. 

“Yeah your botched quebec accent is a real turn on,” Whiskey mutters against his lips. 

Kent tilts his head so he’s whispering in Whiskey’s ear, “Puis-je aller au mon casier,” he says in a deep, husky voice. Whiskey has no idea what he’s saying but he knows it’s definitely something innocuous. 

“Mes fruits préférés sont les ananas,” Kent hums against Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey breaks, a snort escaping his nose as Kent kisses his collarbone. 

“What the fuck is an anana?” he asks. 

“A pineapple,” Kent provides, “I only really remember the swear words and how to ask to go to the bathroom. Oh, and pamplemousse, it means grapefruit.”

“Why do you remember that?” Whiskey tilts his head back and laughs. 

Kent takes the opportunity to kiss the column of his neck, Whiskey shivers. His hands fall, tracing the side of Kent’s torso. Kent keeps kissing him, running his lips over the vein in Whiskey’s neck. 

“How do you feel about neck tattoos?” Kent asks, “You’re a blank canvas.”

“No one is getting anywhere near me with a tattoo gun,” Whiskey says, “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t think of one thing you’d get a tattoo for?”Kent asks. 

Whiskey’s hands still on Kent’s torso. 

_ Stanley Cup Champions, Las Vegas Aces 2012  _

“I guess maybe that,” Whiskey says, “I’d have to be drunk.”

“You bleed more when you’re drunk,” Kent points out. 

“Not my problem,” Whiskey shrugs. 

Kent rolls his eyes. 

“Are you going to get the Olympic rings?” Whiskey asks, he’s seen players with those in the league, he always thought they were cool. 

“On my back, if they let us go next cycle,” he says, there have been two Olympic cycles in Kent’s career, the first he didn’t make Team USA, and the second, the NHL didn’t let the players go. Whiskey knows it’s something Kent wants to do, complete the triple gold set since he already has his world championship medal and a stanley cup, all he needs now is the Olympic medal.

“Is the cup one your favourite?” Whiskey asks, he can't stop running his hand over it. 

“Right now,” Kent nods, “I want you to draw something though, then that’ll be my first favourite.”

“You want me to?”

“Draw something, it doesn’t matter what.”

“I can’t really draw too well,” Whiskey says. 

“I’ve seen the doodles in your notes, I think they;re nice,” Kent says, he kisses Whiskey on the lips, a quick peck before Whiskey starts talking again. 

“Isn’t one of the first rules of tattoos not to get one for someone your dating?”

“You think we’re gonna break up?” Kent raises an eyebrow. 

“No!” Whiskey says, “I mean, no, not… I don’t want to, but you don’t know, what if you end up hating me.”

Kent rolls his eyes, “1) I will never, 2) I’ll get it lasered off or covered up or something,” he shrugs like both of those ideas are no big deal, “ _ and  _ it’s not like it’d be your name or anything, I feel like that’s allowed.”

Whiskey makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, Kent rolls over, he grabs something from the nightstand and hands it to Whiskey, a sharpie. 

“Practice,” Kent tells him. 

“Like…”

“On me,” Kent clarifies, “Draw something on me.”

“Won’t it be hard to wassh off?”

“I have rubbing alcohol.”

“What if I give you a tramp stamp that says  _ BITCH?”  _

“You wouldn’t,” Kent rolls his eyes. 

“Roll over,” Whiskey orders him. 

Kent smirks and does what he’s told. Whiskey sits on top of the back of his thighs. He uncaps the marker and runs his hand over the flat part of Kent’s back just below his spine, he can’t resist leaning forward and planting a kiss on the back of Kent’s neck. He does give Kent a tramp stamp that says  _ BITCH  _ in big bold letters but he also draws a heart on the back of Kent’s shoulder and a little squiggle that goes down his neck. He writes  _ If found return to Connor Whisk  _ on his other shoulder and a smiley face to the left of his spine. 

“Gimme your hand,” he says. 

Kent obliges and reaches back. Whiskey takes Kent’s hand and flips it so that he’s drawing on the back of his hand. 

He draws the letters slowly and carefully.  _ I,  _ he starts with, clear, bold strokes.  _ LO,  _ he writes next,  _ VE,  _ he leave a space. He writes the  _ Y  _ and before he can even finish the word Kent says, 

“I love you too.”

Whiskey plants a kiss on Kent’s hand. Kent moves his hand back and turns his head to look at Whiskey’s handwriting. 

“You’re back looks like a mess,” Whiskey says. 

Kent ignores him, “This,” he says. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“Can I get this?” he repeats, holding up his hand, he sits up quickly, crossing his legs and facing Whiskey, “It doesn’t have to be on my hand and it can be small, but I want your handwriting.”

Whiskey can think of a million reasons why it would be a bad idea, who might see, what kind of weird questions he might get, but in the moment, the idea of Kent having the words  _ I Love You,  _ in his handwriting tattooed somewhere on his body for as long as they’re together makes him irredeemably fond. 

“Yeah okay,” Whiskey says. 

Kent launches forward and kisses Whiskey into the bed. Whiskey’s not surprised when Kent does stuff like that anymore, he just gives it right back to Kent with the same immediacy that he attacked. 

When they wake up in the morning, the sharpie on Kent’s back is smudged, ink stains the white sheet. They both laugh about it.  _ I Love You  _ survived though. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated, let's talk about Kent Parson's tattoos!


End file.
